After I left, he begged me for forgiveness.

In the fourth month of my pregnancy, a stranger came to my door and beat me mercilessly.

Brian rushed me to the hospital, tears streaming down his face as he begged the doctor to save me.

It was strange—he had never cared about me like this before. Until I saw the crowd of reporters outside, cameras flashing at him.

No wonder his grief looked so convincing.

When I woke up again, the room was empty. The doctor told me that my vital organs were fine, but the baby was gone.

I touched my stomach, unsure who I could even share this sorrow with.

Limping, I returned home. My husband was sitting beside a woman whose belly was as round as mine had once been—his secretary, Daisy.

“You’re back,” Brian said casually. “Daisy will be staying with us for a while. She’s carrying a child and needs care. Make sure her meals are varied, according to my taste. She’ll move into your room, and you can stay in the guest room.”

His tone was light, detached, as if giving orders to a maid.

I said nothing. I went upstairs, packed my things, and dragged my suitcase downstairs. They all burst out laughing.

Someone even placed a bet—ten million—that I wouldn’t make it past the hour before coming back on my own.

They didn’t know they had bet wrong.

I stepped into the Maybach waiting at the door.

After so many years, I was finally free.